


John Wick Dick Fic

by Griffy (honklust)



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Clothed Sex, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Panic Attacks, Trans Male Character, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21962068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honklust/pseuds/Griffy
Summary: You get picked up by the most dangerous man in the city. You are almost certain you're going to die.Things don't turn out that way.
Relationships: John Wick/Reader, John Wick/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 116





	John Wick Dick Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for a GC secret santa! Reader is a trans man who has had top surgery so keep that in mind. No violence actually occurs in this fic, although the threat of it is alluded to (not by any of the characters in the fic, just by the reader's internal monologue.)
> 
> I have used terms to refer to the m/c's anatomy that make me as a trans man comfortable and were decided upon by myself and the person I wrote it for! Read at your own discretion!! Thank you!

See, the thing about New York City was that it was flooded to the brim with people. People walking, people talking, people shopping. 

For all the people there, it wasn’t likely that you’d be recognized in the throng by an acquaintance - not in the no-eye-contact head-down hurried politeness that was the norm there. You’d been relying on that ability to disappear into a crowd - to appear no different from the hundreds of other pedestrians going about their day-to-day.

Even with that hopeful anonymity, you still maintained a healthy level of anxiety. You didn’t consider yourself a _real_ criminal, but you’d spent long enough fraternizing with them that you were always aware that the tables could turn on you at any moment.

Your biggest customers back when you were working had been the Russians, but you’d heard a little while back that they’d had some kind of internal massacre, that _Wick_ had done something, and, well, you weren’t about to ask questions. 

You’d settled down, gotten out of the illicit trading circles, and started taking online classes just shortly before all that had popped off - lucky you.

Well, lucky, you had assumed. Life was going pretty damn well so far - school and normalcy and a job that didn’t involve visually checking customers for concealed weapons and threatening demeanors. Hell, you were just starting to get used to that kind of civilian lifestyle when it was whisked right back out from under you.

Really, you should’ve seen this coming.

The feeling of a gloved hand closing over your mouth was an unfamiliar one, and your first instinct was to go stock-still, your second one was to struggle, but the sound of his voice against your ear quelled that second reflex almost immediately. An icy thrill of fear ran down your spine, along with the almost-comfortable knowledge that yes, alright, you were going to die today.

“Don’t fight me.” He said, conversational. Relaxed. He knew you weren’t a threat.

\---

His car was nice - you hadn’t expected to make it far enough down the street to see it - shiny black, expensive, exquisite detailing. 

The cuffs were of a similar mettle - probably bought from the same place that supplied police officers. The jingle of the chain between your wrists as he walked you to the passenger side door felt like a death knell. 

Even still, with yourself handcuffed and a more-or-less silent assassin pressing his hand against your lower back, you found yourself marveling at how… Calm he was. He wasn’t being cruel - just casual. He opened your door for you, didn’t manhandle you into the seat when he saw that you were going of your own volition.

But John Wick never seemed cruel, did he? No, he was just efficient. Fast. Deadly. He was a bullet, not a knife. Not unless he needed to be.

He didn’t talk much, not until he had sat down and turned on the car, let the sound of the radio drown out the racing of your heart in your ears. You turned to look at him - panic in your veins, trembling - and he _smiled_ at you.

“You probably have a lot of questions.”

You swallowed, your tongue so dry you felt like you were going to choke on it. 

Was he playing with you? None of the rumors that circulated through the criminal underground ever said anything about him being _that_ kind of sadist - sure, some people had convinced themselves he was immortal, or inhuman, and _everyone_ said that a man John Wick had been hired to kill would be dead before the next morning, but--

But he wasn’t the type for kidnapping and torture, right? 

Not unless someone had requested it, and who would request that? You’d never wronged Viggo (rest his soul) or his son or anyone else you’d done business with, so why… Why would they send the goddamned _Boogeyman_ after you?

“What did I do?” You blurted, earning yourself a sideways glance and a smirk that felt almost affectionate. That made your heart skip, but you tried to ignore it.

Nobody had told you how handsome he was, had they? Although, to be fair, maybe most people were too frozen in fear to admire how good that black-on-black suit looked on him, how his slacks clung to his thighs--  
  
Jesus. Okay. Now was probably the worst time to get horny for someone, actually.

“I dunno.” He said, leaning back, letting his fingertips remain casually curled around the steering wheel. “They told me to grab you, so I grabbed you.”

What the fuck. Oh, what the _fuck._

“Who?” You asked, your voice growing more frantic, your fingers curling together. “Who would- who wants me? I didn’t- I haven’t even _been_ in the fuckin’ business for like- like a year! I left! I didn’t do any bad deals, I don’t-”

“Hey, hey, relax.” He said, turning onto a narrow street that led out of the city, speeding down towards the outskirts, towards the treeline that surrounded the fancier, private neighborhoods.

You were definitely going to have a fucking panic attack. You could feel it coming on, like a thunderhead swiftly approaching. Your breath was growing quick and sharp, heartbeat was thumping in your ears like a drum. You dug your nails into your own palms, trying in vain to ground yourself.

“Uh oh.” You heard, distantly. He pulled off to the rocky shoulder, the trees blocking the waning sunlight. Nobody would help you. He would kill you here and take your body to whoever the fuck wanted you, or _worse,_ he’d just _shut you up_ and take you to whoever fucking wanted you and--

“Okay, alright,” He turned to you, and his hand was warm on your knee even through the leather of his glove. “Look at me.” He put his other hand on your chin, tilted your head, and his eyes were so _dark,_ but there was nothing cold in them. Just a calm, casual expression - maybe one even tinted slightly with concern, although you were certain you were imagining that.

You drew a stuttery inhale, unable to calm yourself down as you looked into his face, your vision blurred by tears. “I-I-”

“Shh. Just look at me. Breathe in,” He inhaled slowly through his mouth. “And out.” Exhale. He smelled just barely of toothpaste. “C’mon now.”  
  
With his hands grounding you despite yourself, you found yourself mimicking his actions. The wet, panicked sobs being pulled from inside you slowly petered off, slowly lessened until you were mostly breathing normally, your whole body feeling heavy and exhausted.

“Okay. We good?” He asked, cocking his head to the side and god, god you were _definitely_ imagining it, but he really looked so _tender._ The concern on his face made your heart ache. Part of you wished he would’ve just shot you already.

“I-I just- Why are you-- I don’t _understand…”_ You spluttered, averting your eyes. You’d dealt with plenty of criminals - most of them surprisingly collected - but that was over _business._ You were just selling things, and you did a good job of it. After a few years, you’d even grown comfortable.

This was not the comfort of a storefront that sold unmarked weapons. This was not a casual conversation with a Mafioso. This was sitting in John Fucking Wick’s car, in handcuffs, your name written down on some contract somewhere. You might as well have been sitting in your fucking coffin, so why was he… Helping you?

“Mm.” He replied, clearly caught up in thought. “Listen, you’re… Pretty young for this business, aren’t you?” 

You furrowed your brows, caught off guard by the question. “I-I’ve been selling shit since I was like eighteen, I-”

“Right.” He nodded, reaching up to rub at the space above his eyebrow, like he was suddenly developing a tension headache. “Alright, listen. All I know is, uh...” He paused, clearly trying to phrase this politely. “You are no longer an important asset.”

You knew what that all meant. No longer important was basically just a nice way of saying that you were a loose end he’d been sent to tie up. Great.

“So why do they… Why, uh… Why do they need to- why not just hire you to kill me? Or someone- someone cheaper or something-” And okay, that was maybe a little rude, but it was a good _point -_ why hire the most dangerous hitman in the city to do what any guy would do for about $2,000 and a clean record.

His expression grew tense, his fingers tightening against the steering wheel so hard you heard the leather creak. After a moment of thought he replied, his voice dry. “Guess they’re trying to prove a point. Showing off.”

Evidently deciding on something, he sat up a little straighter in his seat. “I’m taking you to my place.” 

“Why?” You asked, although you felt like you maybe knew the answer. He was going to make an example out of you. He was going to show them that they’d used his services for something stupid - that they’d _disrespected him--_

Your thoughts continued to whirl as John pulled the car back onto the road and headed out. You kept your fingers tight together, the binds of the handcuffs feeling heavy. These were almost certainly your final moments - cool metal on your skin, warm leather under you, trees smearing past the windows in dark silhouette.

\---

His house was startlingly modern - a collection of stark white lines and glittering safety-glass window panes - very open, very fancy. It might’ve been peaceful if you weren’t aware that you’d soon be growing cold on the expensive tiles inside. Even still, your eyes drew along the well-maintained shrubbery as his car crunched up the driveway, garage door sliding open silently upon your arrival.

“Well, uh,” He said, killing the engine. “Welcome home for the night, I guess.”

Before you had the chance to ponder over what the hell that meant, he was out and at your door, gently guiding you out of the vehicle. You heard the engine behind you ticking as it cooled down, your eyes drifting along the clean, neatly organized garage shelves. If you didn’t know that this was the Boogeyman’s house, you could’ve passed it off as any normal rich guy’s garage. 

It was always kind of cool how that worked, wasn’t it? How criminals could pass themselves as civilians right up until the last moment. Right up until the drugs and the guns came out.

You were musing on that, unable to fathom why he was still treating you so nicely, as he ushered you in through the door. The lights came up automatically - dimmed but enough to allow you to see how nice his house was. Clean as the garage, speaking of a modest wealth that made you just the tiniest bit jealous. You’d been raking in decent cash selling guns, but nothing on this level.

“Nice place.” You said softly, eyes flickering along the white tile, up the frosted glass banister dividing this room from the next.

“Ha, well...” He started, although a loud bark from the other side of the room immediately distracted him. The bark was followed by the sound of claws on tile, scrabbling towards the both of you.

You got a good look at the dog right as it barreled around the corner, mouth open in a drooly tongue-out smile. You startled a bit, but the big blue pit bull dove right for John, squishing itself up against him as he knelt down to catch it.

The dog showered him with kisses, and much to your surprise, John wrapped his arms around it, petting down its back, rubbing its ears and making little kissy sounds at it. “Yes, yes, hello- hi, I’m home-” He snorted, nudging it out of his lap after a long moment, getting back to his feet.

You were staring at him now, wide-eyed, confused. How was _this man -_ this guy who was clearly enamored with his dog, who had treated you with casual respect, who had _eased you through a fucking panic attack--_ how was this the same man who’d single-handedly destroyed an entire gang by himself? How was _this_ the John Wick of legend?

He didn’t seem inclined to answer the questions evident on your face, instead just casually smoothing down his suit jacket and looking down at you. “Oh yeah.” He said, suddenly, and then there was a blur of motion and you braced yourself - almost without realizing - for an impact.

You stood with your eyes closed and your shoulders scrunched up for a long, long moment before you cracked one eye open. He was standing closer now, his hands hovering over yours, a key ring between his fingers. “Oh-” You said, maybe a little more breathless than you would’ve liked, your face growing hot from embarrassment.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, like he wasn’t the highest paid hitman in the state.

“I-I uh. I thought--”

“Oh!” He started, and then he was _smiling -_ a wide, toothy grin that set your heart skipping in your chest for an entirely different reason. “You thought I was gonna kill you?”

“Uh- Uh, I mean, _yeah-”_ You started, so caught off guard by his attitude that you forgot you were scared of him. “That’s why I’m here!”

“Well,” And then his hands were on your skin, one wrapped around your wrist, the other casually working the key into the lock on the cuffs. “Don’t worry.”

“W-What?” Your voice came out a low, confused gasp. What the fuck did that mean? You were getting tired of being confused - this wasn’t how hits usually got carried out! Most people had the good graces to just land a bullet and go home! There was no _suspense_ and _kindness_ and _cute dogs._

“I am not going to fulfill my end of the agreement.” He said, matter-of-fact, as he took the cuffs off of your wrists, letting them drop into his palm.

You moved to rub at your tender wrists, but he was still mindlessly holding onto one of your arms, and in that moment you had absolutely no desire to push him away. “Won’t they be, uh, upset?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. It didn’t matter. They could stomp their feet and whine all they wanted, the best they’d get in return would be their own personalized body bags.

Something foreign and warm swelled in your chest and you looked down at your shoes. “Um… Thanks? But why?”

“Mmmm…” He hummed noncommittally, finally letting you go and turning around, gesturing for you to follow him to the living room. “I don’t want to kill you, I guess.”

You didn’t know what to do with that information. What did he mean he didn’t _want_ to kill you?

You trailed after him, nearly tripping over your own feet, your heart still hammering in your ears. “Wait, uh- They’ll… Um… Someone else. They’ll send someone else after me.” You said it like he should care, like he should be worried about the well-being of someone he’d only just met. 

He didn’t respond to you, although you had a feeling he probably had answered you in his head. He wasn’t much for talking, was he?

His living room was spacious but cozy enough - it looked a little more lived-in than the rest of the house did. There was a very comfortable looking dog bed in the corner, where the pit bull trotted over and flopped down with a big sigh.

You idled around in the doorway as he strode over to the couch, sank down into the cushions with an exhale that sort of funnily mimicked his dog’s - albeit much quieter. 

A manic little laugh bubbled out of your lips before you could catch yourself, the thought of this man being nothing more than a sleepy lapdog pushing your already strained sanity towards the edge.

Jesus, this whole situation was absurd, wasn’t it?

By the time you finished your sudden burst of frantic laughter, you found him looking at you - his dark eyes focused on your face, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. He didn’t ask you what was funny, just scooted over and patted the space beside himself on the couch. “Come. Sit.”

You stifled another little burst of laughter at how now he was talking to _you_ like you were a dog, and next thing you know he’s going to be collaring you, haha, but even still you crossed the room and sat down obediently. The couch was comfortable - soft enough that you just barely sunk into the cushions.

And then you were just… Sitting with him. He turned on the TV - news maybe, or some other boring live-action thing that you absolutely couldn’t focus on. The world around you had gone warm and fuzzy, the adrenaline from before starting to melt, turn into… Something else.

You were bewildered, and sweaty, and still keyed-up, and most _importantly_ you were sitting on _John Wick’s couch._ You chanced a sideways glance at him every few moments but he was just watching TV, his face more-or-less blank.

You took the time to assess yourself, to think over the events of the afternoon.

You’d been kidnapped by John Wick. John Wick had been hired to kidnap you and then deliver you to your former clients, who were planning on using you as both an example and taking the opportunity to tie up a few pesky loose ends.

You had a final paper to work on, but that panic felt secondary and quiet by comparison.

There was a price on your head, and you had no idea what it was, but it was measly enough that Wick didn’t figure he’d miss it.

And… And that was kind of the _most_ bewildering part of this, wasn’t it? The fact that he’d decided at some point between walking you to his car and parking it in his garage that he wasn’t really into killing you. In fact, he was letting you just… Hang out. With him.

Oh god, was that what this was? Were you _hanging out_ with the fucking _Baba Yaga?_

There were maybe worse places you could’ve found yourself, you reasoned. For example, you could be sitting in a lion’s den or something! Or standing in some Mafioso’s living room with a gun pointed at your head.

It actually did feel kind of… Safe here. He hadn’t really threatened you much, and he seemed so unconcerned with you that he was just letting you sit beside him unbound.

You looked at him again, and the adrenaline in your body decided that it would take a _different_ path just as soon as your eyes landed on the taut curve of black slacks against warm, strong muscles. His fingers were resting casually on his shin where his leg was crossed over the other one - gloveless now, pale against dark fabric, the ridges of his knuckles making your heart skip a beat.

Oh fuck. Oh god _dammit._

You were absolutely hard for the man who’d been hired to kill you.

You willed yourself to look away from him - to not notice how close you were to his side, how easy it would be to move closer, to touch him, to feel his warm skin beneath the expensive fabric of his suit--

Okay, now you were also squirming a little - shifting your legs crossed and uncrossed as arousal coiled uncomfortable and hot in your stomach. This was so incredibly stupid. Of course he was hot - he was intimidating and dangerous and just the right amount of dilfy and you... 

You glanced back up after what felt like hours only to find him _definitely_ looking at you, one eyebrow raised, his mouth curled into the slightest of smirks.

Oh god. Why was he looking at you. What the fuck.

You tried to hold it together, tried to ignore the fact that your face was growing hot and you were almost definitely breathing kind of hard. He wouldn’t assume that you were _horny for him…_ Of course he wouldn’t. Yeah.

God, why were you so horny for him, anyway? Was it maybe the memory of his stubble brushing against your face when he whispered in your ear? The firm but not-harsh way he handled you as he piled you into the car?

Maybe you were just a little bit of a sucker for guys like him. It didn’t matter, right? He wasn’t going to want to hook up with you -- for starters he probably didn’t even like _dudes_ and secondarily you were nothing more than a brief guest in his-

And he was moving closer to you - casual as ever, just scooting himself over so he was sitting with his knee less than an inch from your legs. Your heart stalled in your throat, eyes wide, frozen like a deer in the headlights. You made a sound in your throat - a strangled attempt at explaining yourself, like you had been saying your filthy little fantasies out loud this whole time.

He didn’t speak - just as contemplatively silent as ever as he looked down at you, his dark eyes boring a hole through you, setting your whole body on fire. You were sweaty. You wanted to sink through the floor.

The quiet between you was pregnant with potential now -- heavy with tension all your own and not at all related to the earlier drama. You still couldn’t hear the television, your pulse was hammering in your ears like a snare drum.

The seconds seemed to tick by in slow motion, each invisible motion of the clock synching up with your breathing - shallow and heavy. You couldn’t stop thinking about him now that you’d started -- imagining what those hands that had been trained to kill so efficiently might be capable of.

You weren’t sure what happened first - if you moved or if he moved or if maybe God himself had shoved you both together. Whatever the case, he was suddenly looming over you, hands bracing himself as he boxed you in against the back of the couch, kissed you on the mouth. He smelled very slightly of cologne, and his stubble was warm and scratchy against your face, and you felt like your whole body was about to float off into the aether.

He pulled away almost immediately, his eyes wide, like he was surprised at himself.

“Er- I’m sorry.” He said, hurriedly, but you weren’t in the mood for that. You were far too pent up and far too foggy-headed to be thinking straight right now. You shifted forward until you were crawling right up into his lap, looking down at him.

He looked genuinely bewildered, a slight flush on his cheeks, and you could feel his heart racing where your hands rested against his chest.

You were doing something insane right now, you thought, idly.

It didn’t matter, though - because you leaned in again and caught his lips against your own, one hand skittering up to grip at his shoulder, the other tangling in his hair. He made a surprised little hum against your mouth, but his stiffness only lasted a moment before he was leaning into it, kissing you back.

After a long moment he gently pushed you back again, fingers against your chest. “Wait, uh-” And there was hesitation in his eyes, something dark and conflicted, and you felt the barest swell of anxiety in your chest. Rejection. You were going to be rejected, and that would be fine, but so _so_ incredibly embarrassing and--

“I haven’t. Um. Done… This in a while.”

Oh.

That was not what you expected to hear.

You swallowed hard, trying to calm your breathing as you looked down at him. You really didn’t know what to say - having him speak with such _vulnerability_ curled something tight around your heart.

“That’s okay.” You replied, voice hoarse. “If I- If I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“No.” He shook his head, and he smiled again, although there was something sad in it. “I think this is alright.”

He was taking a risk here - both of you knew it, although you didn’t understand the stakes. How were you to know he hadn’t been with anyone since his wife died? How were you to know that he had been eyeing you up since you got in the car? How were you to know the conflicted arousal swelling in his chest?

Even still, he put his hands on your waist, pulled you in closer. You took that for an invitation - that and the slight pressure of his erection against your ass - and leaned in again, burying your face against his neck, nuzzling in against his jawline. “This is crazy…” You mumbled to yourself.

He laughed softly in return, the sound reverberating through you. “Mm. It is.” He said, voice soft.

Even still, you were grinding against him soon enough - soaked through your boxers and gasping within moments, his strong hands firm on your hips, moving with you. 

Everything was moving so fast - his hands on your hips slid backwards, cupped the curve of your ass, and you couldn’t help but groaning against his neck, teeth grazing over his skin. He groped you for a long moment before shifting sideways and suddenly you were on your back, John looming over you, his hand easing its way up your shirt, along your stomach.

There was a moment of hesitation - you faltered, suddenly awash with concern. What if he reacted poorly to realizing you were trans? What if that changed things, what if he didn’t want to continue, or worse--

He stilled his motions, looking down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you alright?” He asked, voice hoarse with arousal.

You drew a steady, deep inhale, shifted to look over his shoulder, gritting your teeth. “I, uh, yeah, I just- Um.” God. You hated this part, hated _explaining_ shit, and you found yourself wishing that this circumstance had come about a little less abruptly, that you’d had a tiny bit more time to talk with him before he was shoving his tongue down your throat.

He waited patiently while you faltered, his fingers feeling like a brand against your stomach, warm and wanting. 

“I… Just wanted to, like, let you know,” You swallowed, “I just figured I should tell you that I’m trans, I guess, and I get it if that’s not what you signed up for or whatever, but like-”

His brows unfurrowed and he shook his head, leaning down to kiss at your face again clumsily. “Relax. That doesn’t matter.”

And maybe that wasn’t the _best_ thing he could’ve said, but it was relieving in the same way all his short little sentences seemed to be -- blunt and concise, but not degrading. He didn’t mind, and that was that. Nothing else to say.

You felt a thrill race down your spine as his hand pushed your shirt up, exposed the flat plane of your chest, eased his thumb against one of your nipples. 

His lips drug down the curve of your throat, tongue sliding against the slight stubble under your jawline as his hands wandered your torso, slid along your skin, his blunt nails grazing across your ribs in a way that made you buck and squirm.

He stopped his lazy wandering against the taut curve of your trapezius muscle, pausing there to lave his tongue against the sweaty skin. The feeling was startling - wet and warm and then suddenly he was sucking at the skin, working it gently with his teeth. You folded a hand in his hair, gasped and arched up against his warm, firm body as he left you with a series of three little bite marks that would almost certainly be bruises by morning.

Your heart was fluttering in your chest, a warm, pleasant haze falling over your mind as arousal enveloped you. He was moving with a kind of clumsy urgency - a fervor of a man who was giving into his desires for the first time in a while.

You didn’t want to just lie there and take it, though - not with the pressure of his cock against your thigh, not with your heart hammering in your chest and your legs already shaking. You wanted to be proactive.

So you wriggled your arm between the both of your hips, fumbled at the front of his slacks, curled your fingers around the bulge there. He let out a strangled little, “Oh-” sound, his motions growing still as his hips reflexively snapped forward into your touch.

You stroked him like that for a moment - clumsy and greedy - but it wasn’t an ideal angle and the separating layer of fabric was making things harder. After a few reedy little groans he sat up and you met his eyes, saw how blown out his pupils were - he looked nearly feral like that, lips parted, eyes hungry. A shiver raced down your spine as you realized (again) that he was looking at _you_ like that.

“Can I-” He started, asking _permission_ as his hands faltered over his belt, and yes, yes yes you were saying, of course, and you laughed - breathless and short - and he huffed low as he fumbled his pants open.

He pushed them down his hips enough to wrap a hand around his cock, revealing the barest sliver of fuzzy, pale skin under all that dark cloth but your attention was focused elsewhere pretty quickly.

His cock was… nice. Like, really nice -- firm and thick against his palm, the grip of his fingers pulling the foreskin back, revealing the slick, flushed head. You felt your mouth water.

You replaced his hand with your own as soon as you could break your stiff stare, gently nudging his fingers out of the way. His cock was _hot_ against your palm - flushed with blood and twitching once when you gripped it a little tighter. He was breathing hard, audibly, his head rocked back, his lips parted as he stared at your hand on his skin, awestruck.

It was actually like, really charming how flustered his seemed. He had said it’d been a while, right?

You swallowed, having the presence of mind to give him what you hoped was a flirty smile as you started stroking him properly. You’d done this a handful of times - enough to feel relatively confident. The way he was acting certainly helped - it was really _cute._ You didn’t think you’d be the one to render John Wick trembly and gasping, but… You’d do just about anything to have this opportunity again.

His breathing was growing quicker and less even, his fingers tight against the couch as he sat back on his haunches, your hand sliding down the length of his cock, brushing against the base before sliding back up. He was going to cum, you realized with something like sharp clarity - you were about to make him cum. His balls were already drawing tight, his cock jumping against your palm, you could feel his pulse, and you-

You felt his hand close over your wrist, and he quietly met your eyes, licked his lips. His voice came out soft and choked. “Wait.”

He nudged you back so gently, and his hands were _shaking_ and that made your heart swell up in your throat. God. God… This was so _much_ already…

He looked like he wanted to speak, but he didn’t, just guided you back onto the couch again. His hands glided down your stomach, undid your pants, and oh god now he was going to touch _you_ and thank _god_ because you didn’t think you’d ever been this hard or this soaked in your fucking life.

You found yourself feeling startlingly exposed as he undressed you, one hand idling on your fuzzy thigh as he admired you - his eyes raking hungrily over your cunt, your cock as hard as diamond. Your face grew hot and you cleared your throat, reaching out to take his hand in your own.

“Here, uh…” You swallowed, guiding his hands to your skin. He moved along with your encouragement easily, slotting your cock between two fingers, stroking the short length. 

He let out a soft, reverent little noise, taking the lead and working his fingers over the tense flesh. “It’s so hard…” He mumbled, awestruck a bit. His other hand trailed down your thigh, pushed your legs apart so he could feel along your hole, admire just how completely soaked you were.

The feeling of him touching you was shooting lightning bolts right up your spine, your skin growing tense as arousal worked up through your veins. Everything felt warm in a way that was edging towards too-hot and you _loved it._ You wanted him to go further, though, wanted him to stop being gentle, to work you over until you were begging for it.

You managed to work up the strength to say as much - to tell him he could move more, to not be nervous, and the reedy inhale he drew in response made your heart lurch in your chest. He took your advice, the hand on your hole pressing forward, stroking slowly along your skin before he moved a little deeper, slowly, slowly pressing a finger inside.

Your breath caught in your throat at the pressure, arching forward a little. You moved your hand down over his, showed him clumsily how to touch your cock faster. “Mm- Please, uh- more…” You swallowed, too far gone to be embarrassed really.

He was willing to indulge you, though - leaning forward and looking up at you through his eyelashes as he shifted his position. He pushed a second finger in beside the first, stretching you further, angling them so he could grind his digits up against your cunt until he made you stiffen and gasp. He stayed there, rubbing at your g-spot, occasionally sliding his fingers out and back in just to keep you on the edge, keep you gasping and squirming.

You were reduced to a spluttery mess quick enough, your knees shaking and your toes curled against the couch, his other hand busy with your cock. The thing that pushed you over the edge, though, was the way he inhaled sharply as he slid the pad of his thumb over the tense length of your cock, and gasped out, reverent, “I can feel your pulse here…”

You came with the abrupt violence of a train collision- pleasure crashing over you in waves, cascading down your back, flooding your senses. Your vision went blurry, eyes unfocused and mouth open as you tensed up, clenched tight around his fingers and gasped out his name in a stupid, ruined flood of nonsense words.

He was on you again in an instant, kissing you hard and deep and desperate, his hand still between your legs, stroking at your oversensitive skin. “Can I- Can I fuck you?” He said, his words all choked off, crashing together. 

Just the question alone sent chills down your spine and you nodded and nodded, practically drooling as you said, “Yes, please. Please.”

The air around you was hot and heavy, the warm tension of the two of you wrapping around you like a cloak, keeping you secure. Your skin was on fire, your legs still shaking from your orgasm as he sat back, stroked himself over you. He grunted low in his throat, reaching up to push his hair back out of his face.

He leaned forward, grinding the heavy length of his cock against yours, and the slide of slick flesh against flesh made your dick jump. You let out a shivery little chuckle, your voice fried, and arched your hips up a bit.

He looked at you again, made eye contact that seemed to sink right into your heart before he shifted forward, pressed the blunt head of his cock against your hole. He held it for a moment, teased your soaked flesh before easing forward, stretching you around himself.

His motions were slow and measured, his breath coming shaky through his nostrils, like he was trying his best to control himself. He pressed his fingers into your hipbones, held you in place as he rocked forward, nice and steady, until he’d fully hilted himself in your cunt.

The both of you were panting, the sound of the TV accompanying your labored breathing as he held you there for a moment, leaned back to admire how good you looked stretched around his cock, your own erection standing dark and flushed amid dark fuzz.

And then he was moving again, taking in every noise you made, every time you matched his movement with your own. He was surprisingly perceptive but you guessed maybe that was just something you picked up from being an assassin - body language was something he was a _professional_ at understanding, after all.

Something about that reminder - the thought that he was dangerous as sin, the deadliest man in the state of New York, and he was fucking you so patiently, so calmly, paying such close attention to you--

You couldn’t stifle the moan that drew from your lips, your head tipping back against the couch as you scrabbled at his sides, fingers catching in the lapels of his suit jacket, tugging him down against you. He was so much _taller_ than you were and it made it easier for him to lean down, to press heated, breathless kisses to your jaw as he started moving faster.

His restraint was waning and you were happy to see it as his thrusts grew quicker and harder, grinding forward against your insides, dragging as he pulled out and then shoved back in. The pressure was like nothing else - a steady drumbeat of arousal building back up, your second orgasm coming towards you with much more expectation than the first one.

One leg came up, hooked around his waist, drug him forward, closer. Your eyes had rolled back in your head, back arching up off the couch. The pressure in your gut was palpable - tense and tight as a knot, just waiting for that _one_ thing to push you clean over the edge.

His hands fumbled against your cunt, the pads of his fingers (a little rough from _work)_ tracing the stiff line of your cock, thumb grinding gently against the head, slipping past your foreskin just enough to touch bare skin-to-skin and the electricity it sent through you made you scream.

You arched forward, grabbing at him anywhere you could reach - his jacket, his shirt, his ribcage, the firm muscles of his abdomen flexing as he thrusted forward and groaned, your cunt tight around his cock-- 

You came with your eyes wide open, a soundless scream locked in your throat, your whole body drawn as tight and tense as a bowstring. It was _exhausting_ and _perfect_ \-- the kind of orgasm that rattled you down to your core, left you boneless and panting and completely, perfectly satisfied.

He was still inside you, moving with a rapid hungry determination, every motion sending aftershocks of pleasure racing through you, right down to your fingertips. You stayed with him, panting softly as you watched in awe.

His face was drawn tight, his brows furrowed, his hands resting back at your hips as he moved. He was close - it was evident in every twitch of his expression, in the terse, sloppy way he was starting to move.

And then you watched John Wick come apart above you.

He drew a sharp, sudden gasp as if he’d been shot, shifting back on his haunches and pulling out just in time to spill hot white cum across your lower belly, clinging wet and sticky to your skin and dripping down over your own still-sensitive cock. You stared down at yourself, at him - trembling - and felt exhaustion wrap you up in a warm, protective casing.

You were sticky, and he’d made an absolute mess of you, but you wanted nothing more than to drag him down on top of you, to take a nap, to deal with both the physical and likely-emotional mess you’d both made later.

So you did. You grabbed at his shoulders, letting out a low, needy little exhale as you yanked his body forward, buried your head up against his shoulder and let the sound of you both breathing lull you into a kind of heavy almost-sleep.


End file.
